Logan Ryan Smith

The Singers



Movement 100, I Was Born in the New Wave

for Gary Numan


100. Beating organs dropped; left in water. Blood. Teeth.


Placed back in. Back out. Dropped. Down.


Down the organs go. The ants go marching. One by one.

By the riverís edge, outside the forest where

the afterbirth is left. Where bone is often broken and water mysterious.


The keyboard rings. Sound the music again. Synthesizing. Siren.


Staccato. A beat. A good rhythm section, now, in the chest. Before

the spitting of blood and whiteness gone from eyes. The drum.


Bass line of basic breath. Youíve breathed. Down. My breath

in the ghostís face.. Chorus wavering. Manipulated.




My guts are a-twist. The music. The fucking Music.

THIS for IT. TIT for TAT.


Got your music, then. The beat. Itís all about. and amplified.


Sensual record. Certified and lost forever. Replaced by fear

for thrill of the chase. Each for Each and the doors for wandering.


Opens. Shuts.

†††††† Shuts in the face.

Against horizons. Scene. Lines. Differences and facades.

Mountains against.


Tackled by the tabernacle. An army. A choir.

A Tubeway Army.


ďWhere have they been?Ē

ďWhose birthday is it?Ē

Get the blow-ticklers.


Itís England. 1977.






Movement 104, Like Getting News from a Map


104. Isolation. This joy division. This separation. From Land and Sea.


From tree to tree. The manic maniac is on the make. Maniac is making

the mark. The make. Sound in the trees. Your makers make, the maniac

makes in media, in air and space, in schools, and schools of birds and fish.


Fishing through the lake with silk threads of this youíll get only halfway.




Dunk the salamander you found and blame it on a poet

when the dead come back up.


Come back from it. The way the blame can come from anywhere.


Canopies to cover, in cover. To cover anotherís song.


Sound from out there. Something saying: I guess Iíve seen the sparks flowing,

like no one else has ever seen them flowing.


Not lost to the ghost in the grocery store buying apples from the trees

that threw down unripened ones upon the ones now picking. Basketing

the bunches in a T-shirt.


No punishment here. Not now. No, tourism, at the moment, is appealing.


Gathering leaves. Sadness in trees. Water cold everywhere. No Bahamas.


No reason for their weather.

†††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††† Rain. inRain.


Weather. And donít speak of Spain.

They tell me. The weather there.

No. No reason.




A thousand feet in a second. Slow down. Slow down.



thereís sometimes

no coming back to the ground. Ash in air. Bits

of junk in orbit. No





Movement 116, How I Break Records

for David Porter & Antigone Michaelides


116. The Green Knight can have my neck, without Gawainís green

girdle. Iíll let my stomach out too, and laugh. Iíll bellow out loud, so

loud, in fact, theyíll hear me all the way back to 400 AD. Excuse me.


Iíll pass over each prairie and dale, down to the stream and fill it

with the blood of my friends and enemies. Nothing new,

here, you see. Old stories ever and never collapsing.

Like Giants in the broadcast across the land making

earthquakes, and tooth aches, and false dementia to hospital the elderly.


Iíll give the Green Knight my neck some night I come across an

odd hill down by the creek in a glen. Iíll give my neck and let

my blood spurt out across the land to sing the song of a cricket

now found. Once found, then loss. Great loss. A giant land of crickets

turning things over, turned over on their backs and burnt by

countries and borders, and magnificent forests found to be too much.


Iíll turn my head to not watch the ax. Iíll be relaxed and breathe, and think,
ďThis is not horror nor anything to do with honor but a way to go

and begin to speak.Ē And then will end my think. Blood gone brown

on someone elseís hands and in the ground, over the mound by the glen,

in the dale, near the smooth running creek. So many trees. Leaves

to walk on. Not often stalking. Swinging. Winging. Ringing in a laugh.


Iíll laugh and bat an eye. A bat. Hit .400 for the first time in years, and

bring down great things; evil things; and figure myself in the lot.


Power-balanced in the dark of the woods. A mentioned nightmare.


Cicada. Suggestion.









Movement 118, Stuck in the ĎPen

for The San Francisco Giants


118. ďBelieve in me as I believe in you.Ē Itís simple.


Smash a pumpkin on my front lawn and call in a haunting. Itís All Saints Eve.

Itís Halloween. Itís candy teeth and monkeying, and wolves all let out.


Windows burn in jack-o-lantern lighting. Children embrace the fall of Heaven.


The star Lucifer diffused, let loose, let fall from the edge over, to here.


What some call purgatory, but not all. Thereís baseball, after all. And ghosts

to keep things interesting. Biting off your ear when you donít listen.




Jesus, this isnít so hard. Card tricks, magic fix, the fix in the brain. A grain

of sand for a horse! My horse for a kingdom! I donít have either, and

neither does this. Nor no one we know. In here, thereís the sound now

of cars gone by. Baseball on the radio, and the name of Jeff Carter

ringing against the walls from John Miller.


You should be in San Francisco. A city bright, instead of this forest dark.


The black bugs all abound and on the walls. Nodes of this and none of that.


Corners pushing in all around. Nothing like the open pushing skyline.


Homeless reckoning they know the ghosts

far better than others. Ghosting about the gutters and doorways and Camelots

of underpasses, passing by on crutches and stumps, and wings of breath and air.


Sounds familiar. Saved. To get a save in the ninth inning, you have to be in

a close game, all ready.


Weíre all in position, all ready, to get a save.


Okay, all set.

Apollo at home with the big bat, and Her on first with the lead-off.

Luckily today we have The Breakfast of Champions on the mound.


We all need a good closer now and then.


Who wants to buy a car?







Movement 120, Gail Swings and Unwanted Party


120. Lonely Gail collects along her way, pieces for the song.


Piano braces. Metal faces. Braces on the tongue. Song

for the radio, unable to not begin. Song about love,

about god, heartache, and other pop starsóinevitable.


Gail winds through the streets turning crickets on their backs,

and beetles too, tickling their bellies, making her way

for the hills and trees. Only to come back in a harsh wind

over Ocean Beach blowing out all the bonfires and the

homelessí hope of a cigarette or beer from the young

gathered around heat, in darkness and cold, for nothing.


Gail kisses the fishes and mispronounces this company.

The three in the corner with eyes like a pyre and so thin.

Going in and out like bad reception. Waving. The ocean.

The slight film of vision, and the sound too. Antennas

popping out of my brain calling these things over

whether I want them or not. Gail often now with guests.


Get out, get out! I say.


They wave.


Weíll leave those behind, for now,

with the dice, the eyes, and the ice.


However, that contradicts our move to Antarctica.


God bless. God bless. Adieu.








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